I told my therapist my addiction had no cure.

That it wore a face so beautiful, you wouldn't expect it to destroy you.

It had a voice that liked to whisper and convince my skin it was vulnerable- a voice that somehow managed to scratch the surface of my bones and dip it in poison until it would not stop shaking.

She told me I needed help. That somehow I had grown dependent on seeking some sort of antidote from something that could no longer save me.

So I did. I sought help, hoping that somehow it would silence the voices from echoing in my hollow chest that used to be full and stop my bones from cracking and shattering like it was laid bare in endless winter.

Hoping that this drug would lose its identity and its smile would no longer tempt me into making the same mistake as letting your ghost inside to haunt me.

Maybe my skin would somehow feel like home again.

Yet the question still remains, how long will this type of anesthesia last before I feel the pain of losing you, all over again?